


everything that kills me

by leitmotifs (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, superhero au, this will get progressively darker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leitmotifs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A freak accident leaves Harry waking up to burnt bedsheets and Niall almost flooding their flat every two days.</p><p>Or: the reality of being superheroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, hello! after being stranded from my laptop for days, i got restless and decided to write this little side project. i don't anticipate this going more than five or six chapters at the max, but we'll see! just make sure to heed the warnings in the tags - this starts off ridiculously cutesy for a dark fic. :c
> 
> as a last note, _Kryptonite_ by Three Doors Down is probably this whole fic's theme song. yup.

This is the way he wakes: sprawled on his back, breathing heavily, hyperaware of the rocks digging into his back and the weight of the boy slung across his chest. “Niall,” he bites out, and his throat feels like it’s on fire.

Niall separates himself with a _schlick_ and only then does Harry become aware of the dampness spread across his front. With the weight gone, he is able to drag himself into a sitting position, and bright white spots dance across his eyes and he thinks this feels like a hangover. Harry rakes a hand through messy mahogany curls and tries to remember, but it makes his head throb.

Something presses into his side, and he realizes that it’s Niall, hunched and clammy and trembling. “Harry,” he whispers, arms tucked unabashedly between them.

Harry thinks he hears music. He thinks the ground might by thumping with it, the steady _one-two_ that drums beneath his fingertips and matches his pulse. It’s a distant sound, ringing against the trees and bouncing right off in an echo, and Harry doesn’t remember.

He wraps an arm around Niall, an action that comes by instinct. The older boy burrows more insistently against him, and Harry knows that he hates the cold, but his teeth are chattering and his skin is pallid, and he’s never seen Niall this bad before.

His vision stops swimming and finally allows him to look around. They’re surrounded by trees, all tall and twisted and leafless from the winter; the ground beneath them is a mixture of dirt and bark. The lake sits a good nine or ten meters away from them, and there’s just enough moonlight to catch ripples across the surface.

Gingerly, he shakes Niall’s shoulder. “Can you walk?” Each word is like a hot flash across his tongue, but Harry forces them out.

Niall’s skin is wet and slick, his hair matted in a mixture of natural brown and dyed blond. Harry glances to the lake once more and wonders if Niall might have fallen in at one point. It would be a rational explanation.

“C-Cold.”

Niall utters the single word quietly. Harry barely catches it.

He gropes around for leverage, and instead his hand lands on something crumpled and soft. Pulling the object in, he realizes that it’s a navy cotton blanket. He doesn’t stop to think about how it might have gotten there, choosing to tuck it around Niall’s shoulders first and ask questions later. He’s relieved when the blond’s shaking seems to lessen.

“Can you stand?” he asks again. The pain must be from disuse, he reasons. His own throat feels marginally better, and he manages to stand on two shaky legs.

The ground is covered in snow, freshly fallen and tracked with footprints. Oddly enough, they are standing in a circle of dry ground.

“We have to get back,” Niall whispers, and Harry wonders if it hurts for him to speak, too. He nods and helps him to his feet.

The walk back is long and silent. The path they follow is a combination of footprints and the distant pounding of music.

Behind them, the lake glows, briefly, illuminating the strange rock crashed at the bottom.

_

Niall wakes first the next morning, absolutely freezing.

He knows that they’re well into the winter season, and that’s why he had chosen to dress in two pairs of sweatpants and a long sleeved night shirt. But his clothes are damp and the cold is pervasive, seeping in and biting his skin mercilessly.

The covers aren’t enough, so he resorts to the body sleeping next to him. Their bed is fairly large and Harry’s all the way on the other side. Niall closes the distance and curls up against his back, unashamed, because the brunet is impossibly warm. A few seconds later, Harry shifts around, and Niall finds himself staring at hazy green eyes.

“Morning,” Harry says partly into his hair. He stops. “You’re wet.”

Sleep abandons him.

Niall jolts up and practically leaps out of the bed, ignoring Harry’s worried call and darting into the bathroom. He strips down and steps into the shower, twisting the handle all the way to the right and letting the scalding water pour down on him.

He stands there until his skin turns pink and he doesn’t feel like an aftermath of an ice bath anymore. Harry’s banging on the door, calling out in a mixture of frustration and worry, and Niall has half the mind to call back, “I’m okay.”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back.

The spray stops completely. It’s strange, because he can still hear the hiss of the water coming out and the way they land on the shower floor. Niall reopens his eyes and stares, dumbfounded.

He’s not sure how to describe it. The shower is still on and he’s standing directly in its line of fire, but the water stops just short of him, falling straight down instead. It’s as if there’s suddenly an invisible barrier around him; Niall reaches out and watches the water _recoil_. When he sticks his entire hand under the spray, he doesn’t feel a single droplet hit his skin.

Then he hears a loud crash – from the kitchen, he thinks, although he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. As if dependent on his concentration, the barrier disappears and the water resumes its normal course at the same time he turns. It blinds him and he yelps, stumbling back and losing his balance.

He takes a graceful fall into the shower curtains and slams his head against something solid.

_

Harry lingers by the bathroom door, skeptical of Niall’s excuse; after all, the blond had scampered so fast from their shared bed. But when he only hears the shower running, he sighs and heads for their kitchen.

The clock reads five minutes to noon. Harry brings out a pan and some eggs for a late breakfast, checking his phone on the way. There are four missed calls from Liam and probably four very worried voice mails.

He remembers the previous night better now. Liam’s girlfriend had thrown a party, Liam invited them to come, and out of sympathy, Niall convinced Harry to go. The party quickly lost appeal, and they spent most of the night ambling around the property instead. Then they saw something green flash through the sky and Niall, a little bit drunk, pulled him into the forest to see where it landed.

Harry remembers the way Niall gripped his hand tightly as they stepped into darkness, but nothing in between that moment and suddenly waking up, doused and cold.

They eventually found their way back to the house, but by then, neither of them was fit to go back to the party. Harry drove them back to their apartment with shaky hands gripping the steering wheel and Niall a shivering mess in the passenger’s side.

Shaking his head, Harry turns back to the frying pan in his hand. It’s already emanating steam. Usually, that’s a good thing, but the burner isn’t on. In fact, he hasn’t even set the pan on the stove top yet.

Confused, he presses a hand against the bottom; it’s vaguely warm to the touch, but not severe enough that it should be…smoking. It’s unnerving, but he puts it down anyway and switches on the stove.

He grabs one of the eggs and is about to crack it when his phone starts buzzing.

The caller ID says it’s Liam again, and as much as Harry feels like he should answer and reassure him that _no, we’re not dead_ , and _yes, we’re doing okay_ , and _sorry for leaving you last night_ , he lets it go to voice mail. And he stands there in the kitchen with an egg in his hand and the handle of the pan in another and listens to Liam’s worried rant fill the air.

“—at least text me back or something, yeah?” are his last words, then the phone beeps and signals the end of the call.

With a sigh, Harry turns back to the stove. He’ll get Niall to explain, because Niall’s better at explaining things and Liam’s more apt to forgive them if he’s the one who talks.

He tries to crack open the egg, only to find that it’s cooked already.

“The hell,” he mutters, looking down at it. Plucking away the shell, he finds that it’s already been boiled.

He grabs a second one and looks between them. Eventually, he cracks it open.

It’s also cooked.

“The _hell_ ,” he repeats, louder, and puts them both aside and takes the entire carton out of the refrigerator. He’s in the middle of staring at it and wondering if he’s seeing things or if he really did buy a whole carton of already-cooked eggs when suddenly, unusually, inexplicably, it catches on fire.

Harry’s natural reaction is to drop it but his feet have other ideas, and he ends up jumping back and letting go at the same time. The carton of eggs lands on the floor in a mess of yolk and fire, and Harry accidentally knocks over a chair in his haste to step away.

There’s another crash, but it doesn’t come from the kitchen, and there’s only one other place it can come from.

Harry jumps over the burning pile and starts the tap, filling a mug halfway with water and dumping it unceremoniously on the fire. After it’s finally put out, he nearly throws the mug into the sink and runs for the bathroom.

“Niall!” He pounds on the door. It’s not like he’s panicking or anything. “Are you okay? You need to see what just happened—the eggs caught on fire _._ ”

No response.

“Niall,” he attempts again. He twists the doorknob but the lock is still firmly in place, leaving him with no other choice. “Niall, I know hygiene is really important to you, but if you don’t open the door then I’m going to assume the worst, come in, and see you naked.”

(It’s mostly an empty threat. After being friends for ten years, there’s little they have left to hide from each other.)

So he touches the doorknob again with every intent to rattle it open (three twists to the left and a hard twist to the right), except as soon as his fingers come in contact, it explodes.

Well.

It doesn’t explode, per se. What actually happens, or what Harry _thinks_ actually happens, is this: his hand shoots off a jet of fire and incinerates a good third of the bathroom door. Its remains wobble for a moment, before collapsing and splintering into little charred pieces.

Harry gapes at himself in the mirror.

“H—Harry?”

Niall slowly emerges over the side of the bathtub, apparently covered by the torn shower curtain. “Did you just…” He pauses to push away a damp lock of hair. “Did you just blow up our bathroom?”

But there’s no time for that, not when he’s sitting there with a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. Harry drops the remains of the door and makes his way over to Niall, kneeling. “Did you fall?”

Niall waves his hand away. “Did you just blow up our bathroom?” he repeats, a little bit shriller.

“No. Yes. I don’t know what happened. Maybe.” Harry reaches up to touch the bruise, but then he remembers what he did to the door. He withdraws his hand. “Are you okay?”

Baby blue eyes blink owlishly at him. Then Niall’s cheeks tinge red and he coughs, glancing away from his best friend. “Yeah, I’m fine,” the boy murmurs. “Kind of dizzy, but I’m fine. Were you cooking breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

“Smells like something’s burning.”

And Harry’s eyes go wide and he stands and runs for the door. Halfway there, he remembers Niall and whirls back around, extending a hand to the blond. _Then_ , he remembers again that his hand was the one that blew their door to smithereens, so he takes it back at the last second and Niall flails at the sudden loss. “Sorry,” Harry says quickly, backing away with a nervous chuckle. “I left the stove on. Sorry.”

He high tails out of the door.

“Harry, don’t—” Niall reaches after him, but it’s half-hearted at best; Harry’s already gone. The shower is still running and he’s still on the floor and water’s getting everywhere, yet all he can do is stare at the broken hinges of the doorway and the crisp splinters on the tile.

A few seconds later, he sees something out of the corner of his eye.

The water is moving.

It isn’t a normal kind of movement, either. It’s almost…dancing.

Niall watches in a mixture of horror and fascination as it swirls into thin ribbons in front of him, looping this way and that and glistening under the bathroom’s light.

Of course he wants to touch it, but as soon as he gets an arm up, the water loses its shape and drops to the floor, only adding to the mess.

“I’m seeing things,” he tells himself, decisive. He must have hit his head last night and that fall in the shower certainly didn’t help.

Niall disentangles himself from the shower curtain, grabs a towel, and pads back to their room. He can hear Harry talking to himself in the kitchen, and he’s reminded that he’ll have to face him at the breakfast table and explain how he fell. But it isn’t so bad, he realizes, because it means he can also ask about the door.

In the end, neither of them brings anything up.

When Niall steps into the kitchen, Harry’s leaning against the counter with his phone in one hand and a sandwich in another. “Morning,” the younger boy says, and Niall returns the greeting as he reaches for a slice of bread.

He _might_ have an inkling of what’s going on, but the idea is absurd. Harry would laugh at him, he thinks.

So they eat in silence until he gets up to throw the plastic knife away and he notices the burnt eggs carton in the trash. Harry looks up from his phone, green eyes flickering nervously, as if expecting him to comment on it.

“Do we have any milk left?” is all Niall says.

_

They become quite good at ignoring it.

Days pass and accumulate into weeks. Niall starts taking his showers either during the night, when Harry’s asleep, or early in the day, before Harry wakes up. He avoids drinking water around Harry and he offers to do the vacuuming if Harry will take up washing dishes.

Harry doesn’t let Niall cook with him anymore. He doesn’t even sleep in the same bed with him anymore – after two years of sharing the flat and falling asleep to Niall’s presence behind him, he tells Niall, without a proper explanation, that he’ll be sleeping on the couch from now on. He tries to avoid touching metals and cardboard and especially people.

But there are little slips.

Like when Niall shuffles into the kitchen and sees Harry turned away from him, looking down at his fingers caught aflame. Like when Harry comes home early and finds Niall staring at a cup, the water twirling around his wrist.

There are bigger slips.

Like when Niall finds blanket after blanket in the trash, tattered and burnt. Like when Harry accidentally walks into the bathroom and finds Niall completely submerged in water, eyes closed and bubbles rising from his lips as if he’s breathing. Like when he wakes the next morning and Niall wants to talk about getting their shower fixed, because the pipes have all burst and there’s water leaking everywhere.

And then there is the biggest slip, when Harry forgets that he shouldn’t touch Niall and comes up behind him in the kitchen, slinking his arms loosely around his waist, nosing into his collar, and murmuring, “You smell like the sea.” It’s a combination of salt water and sun and crisp air that makes Harry think of the beach.

Niall forgets himself too and makes no move to pull away, foregoing food. He likes it, he decides, likes the way Harry feels against him and around him – until he feels a slow, rising heat spreading through his back. “Harry,” he says, and when Harry’s arms stay put, Niall pinches his arm and repeats in a firmer voice, “ _Harry_.”

But Harry turns him around and then they’re kissing, and it’s not as surprising as it should be. It’s almost natural and Niall even thinks, _Finally_.

Harry tells himself it’s just a distraction, leaning in until Niall’s pressed against the counter with nowhere to run. _Just a distraction_ , he repeats over and over again, because Niall can’t see that the entire back of his shirt has been singed, but then Niall is kissing back and he stops thinking.

Fingers trail up the back of his neck and wound into his hair, forcing him to take a step forward, and Harry is all too willing to oblige. He has Niall’s cheek cupped in one hand and his fingers tugging on the edge of his shirt with another. “Off,” he demands into their mouths, leaving no room to argue, and Niall lifts his arms and lets him pull the shirt off.

He lets the singed cloth drop to the floor, kicking it somewhere Niall won’t see. And that’s it, he’s managed to get the shirt away and he can stop now, but he doesn’t; Niall is pliant beneath him, pressing closer and kissing back heatedly, and some part of him has been waiting for a long, long time, and now the he has it, he doesn’t want to let it go.

He has his hands braced on counter when he feels the heat gathering in his palms. “Niall,” he begins, his tone a warning, but it’s not nearly enough time.

Harry ducks out from Niall’s arms and turns around just as the fire shoots out from his hands, obliterating the hardwood floor.

“Holy shit,” Niall breathes, sounding vaguely hysteric. “Get back—“

The sprinklers overhead practically burst, dousing everything beneath it with water. Niall splutters and grabs Harry’s elbow to pull him back, but Harry quickly regains balance and jerks away.

The water stops.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry says waveringly, swiping a hand across his eyes. “Don’t— I’ll hurt you.”

They’re surrounded by puddles and scattered pieces of wood. Slowly, the puddles collect into individual droplets and rise around them, like rain in reverse. Niall exhales a shaky breath, and then they drop like someone cut the strings holding them up.

“There’s something wrong with us,” he says, very softly. It’s the first acknowledgement of _this_ – whatever it is – since the night of the party.

Harry musters a dry chuckle. “No, really?”


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm surprised at how fast this came but????? at least i'm upholding my new years' resolution with somewhat timely updates B)
> 
> i still have to proofread, like, half of this, but everything's been so busy lately and i was kind of excited to post this, so any typos will be fixed (hopefully) by later tonight. 
> 
> postscript: ayan and derek are to blame for the Smokey Bear and Supernatural references that are and will be mentioned smh

Liam wants to stop by. “No,” Niall quickly says, casting a glance at Harry, who’s stepped foot into the kitchen for the first time in a week. They don’t have much of the counter left, but it’s been needing replacement anyway. They’re working on getting the floor redone. For now, there’s a round blast mark in the middle of their kitchen.

“Tell him I’m sick,” Harry suggests, pulling out another egg and cupping it between his hands. “Stomach bug. Highly contagious.”

“Harry’s sick,” Niall translates into the phone. “It’s a stomach bug and highly contagious.”

“I can hear him too, you know,” sighs Liam from the other side, and Niall feels a twang of guilt. “It’s fine, I get it.”

“Sorry.”

“But you two are fine, right? You never told me what happened at the party.”

“I wasn’t feeling well that night,” Niall says as Harry arrives with a plate of boiled eggs. (They’re not really boiled; Harry simply held each one for about fifteen seconds and they were cooked instantly. Niall watched him.) “We’re okay, Liam. Really.” Harry drops a kiss on his cheek.

There’s silence. Niall wonders if Liam doesn’t buy his story, or if maybe he heard the kiss.

“Good. I just needed to hear that.”

Niall bites back a sigh of relief. “No problem,” he says, smiling slightly. “Sorry we bailed on you, mate. We’ll stay next time.”

“Right, right,” Liam says, sounding distracted now. “I’ve got another incoming call from Danielle, so—“

“It’s fine, yeah,” Niall interrupts. “Thanks for caring, Li. Really. Sorry we’re a pain in the arse.”

He can practically hear Liam’s grin through the phone. “You’re tolerable. See you, Niall.” Then, louder, “You too, Harry.”

“Bye, Liam,” Harry calls over the dinner table, and that’s when Niall ends the call.

He sets the phone down and turns to his plate, quirking a grin of amusement when he sees the eggs. “You’ve got superpowers,” he comments, “as in, you can shoot fire and burn things, including human beings. Instead, you’re hand-cooking eggs.” He pokes one of them, watching as it goes off rolling.

“You were making waterfalls in the shower,” says Harry, defensive.

“I was practicing.” Niall busily cracks an egg open and ignores the way Harry appears behind him, hugging him from behind. He has his gloves back on, the one he’s been wearing since the incident with the counter. He says it helps lower the chances of him setting something on fire, but the gloves themselves have gotten burnt a few times and needed to be replaced. This is the fourth pair, Niall thinks.

“We could be superheroes,” Harry mumbles into his neck.

Niall pretends not to hear him, peeling away the last bits of eggshell. “Will you start sleeping our room again?” It’s getting cold without Harry.

“I can’t.” Harry presses a kiss to the spot beneath his ear apologetically. “Might burn you up. Remember that episode of Supernatural?”

“It was the very first one,” Niall snorts. “Besides, you’re not a demon. You’re…Harry.”

“And you’re Niall,” Harry says, moving his arms away and dropping into the seat next to him. He props his elbows on the table and stares at Niall, his expression unreadable. “That’s why I can’t, not yet.”

Niall lets his shoulders drop a little, because Harry does have a good point but it doesn’t stop Niall from missing him, even if he did have a tendency to steal the blankets.

He continues eating silently, and he’s about to ask Harry if he’s going to eat too when the other boy stands. “Let’s go to the park,” he says.

Shooting a dubious glance at the window, Niall shakes his head. “It’s snowing.”

Harry offers him a small grin. “I’ll keep you warm.”

_

They spot only three other people in the park, which may either be because it’s nine in the morning or it’s snowing. Niall contributes it more to the latter.

“Harry,” he says, stepping closer to the other boy. His breath comes out in little puffs of frost. “What are we doing here?”

He thinks Harry’s smiling. “Come on.”

They arrive at a small lake usually reserved for fishing, away from anyone’s prying eyes. The weather isn’t too bad, the snowflakes coming down leisurely and landing on their heads, but the water is frozen.

Niall feels his skin tingle. Nowadays, he always feels like he’s just stepped out of the shower.

Harry stops by the edge and takes his glove off, pressing a hand into the snow, and Niall watches in awe as it gradually melts away beneath his palm.

“I wanted to show you that,” Harry says sheepishly, slipping his glove back on.

“You could’ve shown me without coming all the way out here.” Niall looks around them to make sure no one is in sight. “Is that all?”

Harry nudges him in the side. “Stop worrying. You said so yourself that no one in their right mind would come to the park on a day like this.”

“So why are we still here?”

Pretending not to hear him, Harry sits down and crosses his legs. The grass is dry beneath him and even somewhat warm, and he tugs at Niall’s pant leg, cajoling, “Sit with me.”

There have been few instances when Niall could actually say no to Harry. He finally relents and drops down next to him, making sure to press against his side tightly. It’s a little unfair that Harry gets to be a walking heater while he has to be constantly perspiring. (“Don’t call it that,” Harry said indignantly, “you’re not sweating, you’re just...emanating water.” He had wrapped his arms stubbornly around Niall and buried his face into his shoulder. “You smell good, too. Like the beach.”)

“It’s frozen.” The gesture he makes is unnecessary. Surely Harry could see that the whole thing is solid ice.

“I was thinking about that.” Harry inches forward until his knees are brushing the edge. “Ice is just frozen water, right? Maybe you could control it too.”

Niall shakes his head. _Maybe you could control it too_. He didn’t think he would ever hear something like that. He didn’t think his hands, the same ones that spilled countless cups and broke guitar strings, would be capable of controlling anything.

But here they are.

“I don’t think I can,” he says, and when Harry looks like he’s about to protest, Niall keeps on talking. “How do you do it? Can you show me?”

Harry’s eyes are like a stretch of grass under a summer day’s sun, softening at the question. His cheeks are faintly pink and Niall wonders if it’s just from the cold. “Yeah, sure. I’ve been practicing.”

Both of them have taken breaks from their jobs since the powers started becoming a problem. Harry didn’t feel safe working in a bakery, surrounded by flammable things, and Niall didn’t trust himself around children at the daycare. They both used the family emergency excuse, which was technically a half truth. It was definitely an emergency; they just weren’t family. (Niall used to compare Harry to a brother, but then he realized that brothers don’t feel this way towards each other.)

So it makes sense that Harry’s been using his free time to practice. It surprises Niall anyway.

“You have to relax,” Harry is saying. “Imagine that you’re the water.”

Niall smothers a giggle.

“This is a serious matter.” Harry shoots him a mock scowl. “You have to feel it. I know it sounds cheesy, but I can’t describe it any other way.” He looks at the pond, trailing a hand across the sheet of ice. “Just…imagine it running up your spine, down your arms, into your hands, and…” He trails off, and Niall’s breath hitches when his hand starts _glowing_ – it’s not bright and flashy but subtle, an dim ebb of red and orange beneath the skin of his palm, a promise of power.

There’s a small crackle as the ice breaks apart. When Niall looks over, he realizes that Harry’s eyes have drifted shut in a serene expression.

The glow surges suddenly, more bright orange than red, and a sharp crack races down the ice. The beginnings of a flame spark on Harry’s fingertips, and it’s not the first time that Niall’s seen it but god damn, does it amaze him.

“Harry,” Niall whispers. He’s not sure if this is supposed to be happening, but the sight of his best friend’s hand on fire is more than a bit concerning. The ice isn’t simply melting anymore; the water is beginning to bubble and steam.

What happens next makes Niall wonder if Harry _ever_ learned anything from those Smokey the Bear commercials: fire shoots from his palm and completely skims over the ice, instead landing on the grass and sending a puff of smoke into the air. Now the ground is on fire. Fantastic.

Harry’s eyes are open now and he’s staring blankly at his hand, but the fire’s beginning to spread and he certainly isn’t helping. Niall calls his name again, this time in a sharper tone, and maybe it’s the panic and hysteria combined that makes the water erupt under the cracked ice, spewing through the cracks and drenching everything within a five foot radius.

Fortunately, that includes the burning patch of grass. Less fortunately, it also includes Niall and Harry.

“—What the hell?” Harry splutters, like he should be the one upset.

“What do you mean, what the hell!” Niall shakes droplets off his hair and glares up at him. “Did you want to show me that, too? Harry Styles’ Guide on How to Start a Forest Fire?”

“I don’t need your sass,” grumbles Harry, sour.

Niall whacks him over the head. “I was worried,” he begins accusingly. “One minute you’re sitting there like you’re meditating, and then you’re shooting a fucking fireball from your hand! I thought you said you practiced.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out. At least I’m practicing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I don’t want to accidentally _drown_ someone.”

“You can’t just keep ignoring it, either. We already wasted enough time doing that. We either have to find a way to get rid of them or learn how to control them.”

Niall swallows, turning away in an act of defiance. He knows Harry has a good point, but he’s allowed to have moments of petulance. This is one of them. “I don’t want to hurt people,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“If you learn how to control it, then you won’t.” Harry moves closer and surprises him by touching his cheek, the first time in a while that he’s touched him without gloves. “Trust me?”

It’s not fair, because then he’s bringing their lips together. The kiss is short but effective, and Niall silently curses Harry out for the dirty trick.

“Maybe we could be like superheroes,” he says, parroting Harry’s earlier words.

He feels him smile against his cheek. “I knew you’d come around.”

Niall shifts away reluctantly, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over his hands in an attempt to warm himself. He feels like he’s just showered again. It’s usually a refreshing thing, but when they’re out in the cold, it’s not quite as pleasant.

“Are you going to teach me, then?” He peers over at Harry, watching as the younger boy studies his own hands.

“About that.” Harry chuckles sheepishly and picks up his glove. “Maybe not me, since…” He gestures towards the lake-turned-sauna before standing. “…You know.” He grins crookedly though and Niall almost completely forgives him for nearly burning the park down.

“So how’re we going to become superheroes, genius?”

And when Niall says that, he’s only fifteen percent serious, maybe twenty at the max. Superheroes existed in comic books and wore flashy uniforms and had aliases and saved lives. They’re Niall and Harry, Harry and Niall, and _heroic_ wouldn’t be the last word he would use to describe them, but it certainly would not be the first.

Harry says anyway, “Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea.”

_

“You called _Liam_?”

Two days later, Niall’s standing in the middle of their flat, tired from their cleaning spree and wanting nothing more than to just curl up on the couch (preferably next to Harry) and sleep. But he also needs to address a current, very pressing matter. He waves his hand around and nearly drops the toothbrush he’s holding in an attempt to capture his best friend’s attention.

Meanwhile, Harry is splayed across the couch with his cellphone balanced on his stomach. His gloves are off and he’s holding his hand out to Niall with a delighted expression on his face. “Look,” he says. He snaps his fingers, declares, “Flame on,” and a wisp of fire actually rises from his thumb.

“You idiot,” says Niall primly. “Did you really call Liam?”

“You’re just jealous,” says Harry, blowing out the flame and snapping his fingers again. “And no, I did not.”

Niall tosses his phone at him too. “He texted me and asked if you’re high again. You told him about our thing?” He settles on the word, for a lack of a better way to describe it.

“Which thing, the kissing and touching thing or the fire and water thing?”

Niall groans. “I can’t believe I believed you,” he grouses, pointing the toothbrush disapprovingly.

“Aw, come on, babe.”

He doesn’t get to retreat into the bathroom because Harry’s reaching over the back of the couch and pulling him closer by his shirt. He thinks he’s blushing; Harry’s been acting rather strange lately. It’s not that the brunet had much trouble with confidence to begin with, but he is rarely this forward, either. Niall isn’t sure if he should be concerned or pleased.

“Don’t ‘babe’ me,” he says, batting Harry’s hand away. It’s warm where it brushes the skin of his stomach, either from the sensitivity or the fire that courses through his veins. “How are we going to explain to Liam? He won’t believe us.”

“That’s why we’ll show him.”

“And possibly destroy the flat? We’ve taken enough turns with that.”

Harry’s halfway through a rebuttal when their buzzer rings, and Niall remembers that it’s nine in the morning and he’s standing in the middle of their living room with a toothbrush. “Is that Liam already?” He frowns at their phones, trying to gauge the distance between their flat and Liam’s.

“I’ll get it. Go put that toothbrush back, you look ridiculous.”

Niall swats him on the arm as he passes, but really, it’s affectionate.

As Harry answers the door, Niall heads back to the bathroom and finishes brushing his teeth. Their bathroom is relatively small, containing the bathtub, the toilet, a mirror, and the sink, all with a foot of elbow room. There’s a slight rip in the shower curtains from Niall’s fall, and a glance is all it takes for him to remember that particular morning.

He flips the tap on again and studies the water. He thinks back on what Harry said and takes a deep breath. In the other room, he can hear Harry talking to Liam, but Niall looks behind him to make sure he’s alone anyway.

Then he wills the water to move.

He doesn’t know how to describe it. He pictures the water bending and separating into individual streams, like strands of spaghetti dropping from the sink, and it listens to him.

Maybe Harry knew what he was talking about after all.

“Hey, Niall!” comes Harry’s voice, jolting the blond from concentration. The water show stops and Niall hears the sound of metal splitting. There are cracks appearing on the sink, rivulets of water leaking out.

Niall cringes and ducks out of the bathroom, making a small note to fix it later. He can use practice as an excuse – right, he was practicing and the sink just spontaneously combusted. It’s a plausible story.

He walks into the living room and, lo and behold, Harry’s not standing there with Liam. The guest looks nothing like Liam; he has jet black hair styled into a messy quiff, and his light blue shirt is tight fitting and his jeans even moreso. Niall sees tattoos crawling up his arm and disappearing beneath his sleeves and he brings a faint smell of nicotine.

Niall looks to Harry, confused.

“Uh, he’s our new neighbor, apparently.” Harry puts a hand out and waves to the newcomer. “Two doors down. Zayn, right?”

The boy nods and offers an unexpected smile. It’s a small one, but it lights up his entire face. “Sorry, I know it’s early, but I wanted to introduce myself…” His voice is tinged with an accent, and Niall cocks his head, at first not understanding him.

“It’s fine. You met Harry, then. This is our flat.” He clears his throat. He’s standing there in his pajamas, so this feels somewhat awkward. To be fair, he was expecting Liam. “We’re not too loud, I promise. We’ve been living here for—two years, right?” At Harry’s affirmative, he finishes, “So if you need anything, you can ask us.”

It’s just awkward out loud as it is in his head. But Zayn doesn’t seem to mind, tipping his head towards them. “Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t use the vending machines downstairs, ‘cause they’ll eat up your quarters. Otherwise, welcome to the city.” Niall shoots a look at Harry, who’s fighting not to grin. “Got something to add, Harry?”

“Oh?” Harry hums, eyes suddenly attentive. “No, nothing.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Now even Zayn seems amused and Niall stares back and forth between them, wondering if he’s missed something. “I have to finish unpacking, but it was good to meet you two.”

Niall waves weakly as Zayn steps towards the open door, boots thumping softly on the carpet. “I’ll see you around, Harry. Niall.” With that, he’s gone, leaving the flat quiet.

“Sure, just stand there and let me take the piss,” Niall grumbles to a snickering Harry.

“But you were doing so well.” Harry laughs outright and walks over, slinging his arm over Niall’s shoulder and nuzzling against his cheek. “You even mentioned the _vending machines_.”

“That was me trying to be a good neighbor.” Niall kisses his temple anyway, and he has to push up on his toes in order to reach, but he manages.

“It’s cute,” Harry decides, and Niall lets him wrap his arms around him because escape is kind of futile.

“Did you tell him my name?”

“Hm?”

“He knew my name.”

“I think I mentioned you, yeah. Does it matter?”

A newcomer arrives and magically knows his name—yes, it might matter a teensy bit. Niall doesn’t get to voice his concern, since Harry’s kissing him again.

It’s been like this for a while now, he thinks. Not much has really changed between them, save for more kissing and passive aggressive flirting and compromising positions. (Harry still rarely takes his gloves off, but it’s a minor setback.) Niall is ninety-nine percent sure that they can’t be considered friends anymore, unless friendships do include this much kissing and no one ever told him.

And he doesn’t care much for labels, honestly. But he cares a lot about Harry and what he has with Harry, so a label for _them_ would be helpful. He doesn’t want to find out that they haven’t been on the same page for the past few weeks and none of this is actually amounting to anything serious. Niall’s been in love with Harry a little too long to let that happen.

So he asks as subtly as he can, hands sliding over the curve of Harry’s shoulders and brushing against the back of his neck, “What are we?”

Harry pushes him away gingerly. “Careful,” he murmurs, and when his grip lingers on Niall’s forearm, he feels the heat through the gloves. Niall understands, but it doesn’t stop the dull ache in his chest.

“I’m not sure why you get worried,” he chuckles lightly. “You’re fire and I’m water, right? We should even each other out.”

Mirth flickers across Harry’s expression. “We can be that.”

Niall raises an eyebrow at him. “Be what?”

“Fire and water. Harry and Niall.”

It isn’t exactly what Niall was looking for—but it sure does sound nice. And Harry’s smiling and showing off his dimples and Niall can’t exactly go against a sight like that. “Niall and Harry,” he admonishes, crossing his arms and leaving no room for argument. “If we’re going to hit headlines, I want my name first.”

“When they decide they want to make a jingle for us, it would only make it harder. More words rhyme with your name than mine.” Harry says all of this like it should be common sense. “Mine goes first.”

Briefly forgetting about everything else, Niall steps up to him. “Oh yeah?” he challenges.

“Oh yeah.” Harry scoffs. “Fight me for it, shortstack.”

“You asked for it, Bigfoot.”

Before things can actually break out into a serious-water-fight-slash-fireworks-show, someone knocks on the door. Niall stops in the middle of a threat and turns around.

“Postponed,” Harry declares, tapping him dangerously low on the back as he moves to welcome the guest. “Think that’s Zayn again?”

No, it turns out to be Liam. “It’s the police. Hide your drugs,” is how their friend announces himself. Niall is proud of how far he’s improved in terms of wit and sarcasm. He and Harry have been very good teachers.

“I’m innocent, officer, I swear.” Harry opens the door with a flourish and let Liam inside, reminding him two or three times not to get snow on the floor because _we cleaned earlier and it took, like, two hours just to scrub the carpet clean so yeah, please don’t track shit on the floor._

“Glad to see you two still alive,” says Liam, somewhat grimly. He’s taking his coat off, but Niall walks over and interrupts him with a hug. It’s his usual greeting – his friends all know how affectionate he can get, especially Harry.

But Harry catches his wrist and pulls him back anyway, until the shorter boy is back at his side and he can sling an arm loosely around his waist.

Liam, upon finding his arms empty, cocks his head. “You invited me over to…” he trails off encouragingly, like he’s expecting one of them to pick up his sentence.

“Oh!” Niall wiggles out of Harry’s arm and settles a few steps away. Shooting Harry a meaningful glance, he says, “Right. What were we going to tell him, Harry?”

Before he can get a word in edgewise, Liam is speaking again: “No, no, it’s fine. I understand.”

Niall and Harry look to him, the former with a sense of hopefulness and the latter a sense of panic. “You do?” they ask simultaneously.

“Yeah.” Liam smiles at them, and Niall’s considered him one of his closest friends since senior year, when they were chemistry partners and half of their labs were spent nearly dousing each other in hydrochloric acid. It was quite the trust exercise. They’ve told each other everything, from first kisses and dates and Niall’s maybe-sort-of crush on Harry, but.

He’s not so sure how this one will go.

“It’s pretty obvious, really,” says Liam, and here he is, potentially saving Niall the trouble. He doesn’t appear perturbed, and at that, Niall starts feeling relieved. All right. Maybe Harry had made a good judgment call. Liam gestures to him and Harry. “You two finally realized that the pining’s been mutual all these years, and you finally snogged.”

“What,” Niall splutters at the same time Harry says thoughtfully, “There _is_ that.”

Liam shakes his head. “Look, I’m happy for you two. Nothing wi—“

“That’s not it,” Niall protests. At Harry’s pointed look, he amends, “Well, okay, that’s part of the reason. But it’s not the main one. See, when Harry and I came with you to that party, we found some weird r—

There comes a loud crash, effectively cutting him off. The impact reverberates through the apartment: the ground rumbles, the walls shake, and things wobble and topple off of tables. Liam backs into the wall and Niall instinctively grabs Harry.

Everything goes still.

“Is that part of what you wanted to show me?” Liam asks slowly. He’s wincing, and Niall thinks he hit his head.

He never gets to start explaining, because then, everything explodes.


End file.
